


beauty and the beast

by ABaskerville



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: F/M, beast!ivar/beauty!reader AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-02-18 22:50:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22334467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ABaskerville/pseuds/ABaskerville
Summary: Do you have a daughter?Yes.Then you will bring her to me.[A man takes shelter in a seemingly abandoned great hall and takes a flower to give his daughter upon leaving, angering his host]
Relationships: Ivar (Vikings)/Reader, Ivar the Boneless/Reader
Comments: 12
Kudos: 90





	1. things most precious

**Author's Note:**

> the concept of beast here is very loose and doesn't necessarily relate to ivar being a cripple, especially from the perspective of beauty. It has more to do with his perception of himself, and his entrapment and isolation - a curse that can only be broken by 'true love'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the concept of beast here is very loose and doesn't necessarily relate to ivar being a cripple, especially from the perspective of beauty. It has more to do with his perception of himself, and his entrapment and isolation - a curse that can only be broken by 'true love'.

The winter storm had caught up faster than the old earl anticipated, and he had lost hope of finding his way through the raging snowfall when a flicker of fire caught his eyes through the flurry. He urged his horse forward, bowing his shoulder against the wind, and was surprised when the thicket of trees ended without warning. He found himself in a clearing, with a great longhouse sitting at its center. Hopeful gold flame flickered through a window, and he braced himself to plead for shelter at the door.

Afraid of being rude, he took care to find the stables first, and tied his horse in an empty stall, marveling all the while at the strong-looking horses sleeping in the other stalls. Briefly, he considers simply staying there. It was warm enough, and the hay will make a bearable bed, but then his stomach made a complaint of hunger, and he supposed he may as well knock on the door now than be mistaken as a thief or a vagrant when he’s discovered in the morning.

His feet took him slowly back to the front door, sinking deep into the snow which each step. He knocked once, and the door swung open. He called out, peering cautiously into the room, but found no one there.

“Hello!” he called again, pushing the door a little further so he could see better. A large open space greeted him, warm and inviting. To his left were two long hallways that disappeared into shadow, on his right was a great hearth where fire blazed. Beside it was a long table flanked by benches, and drawn by the smell, he found that a single setting had been made: a plate, a knife, and a goblet, inlaid with rubies. The roasted chicken was still tender on its platter, sided with potatoes. A bowl of stew still steamed, and a tankard of ale completed the offering.

He looked around, arms wrapped around his still thawing form, looking for anyone. He did not wish to assume that someone had seen him arrive and saw fit to be so generous to a stranger, but though he waited on the bench warming himself for as long as he could, no one came. His hunger threatening to overcome him, he muttered a prayer to any god listening – to thank them if this was indeed good fortune, and to ask for protection if he had been mistaken – and began to eat.

At first, he jumped at every sound, even at the rise and fall of the gale outside, his eyes watchful. He saw no people, but he recognized the opulence of the hall as someone who once lived in similar comfort. Of course, this was much more than he’d ever afforded, even in his most prosperous years. This was _princely_. The walls were smooth and of good dark wood, the ceiling panels were carved with skill, and the rugs at his feet were thick.

The physical manifestations of his host’s wealth, along with a full stomach and a warm fire slowly coaxed him into tranquility, for it seemed likelier now that his host could afford to be so liberal in his hospitality. Nevertheless, he did not expect room to be made for him, and he was perfectly satisfied with stretching out on the bench and closing his eyes for a brief rest. Tomorrow, he would thank his host at the earliest opportunity. Then he must be off, for he was reminded that he had a daughter and a new wife waiting for him fearfully to return home.

But in the morning, he woke to soft white light still alone. Another meal was laid out on the table – a light and creamy broth that melted on his tongue, freshly baked bread, and an apple, an _apple_ in winter! He took his time eating, hoping his host will appear, but it was quiet and still throughout. Finally, when he could delay no longer, he said “thank you!” in a loud voice, and went out into the new day.

Under the calmer sky, he marveled at his good fortune to find such a kind place in the midst of misfortune. For he had come from city hoping to profit from the gamble he’d placed on a ship bound for the Mediterranean, only to find that it had been caught in a terrible storm and half the goods had tumbled overboard. He was barely compensated for his investment, and after buying some sorely needed furs and a new dress for his second wife, he had nothing but a few coins left when he left the city. He had not even gotten anything for his daughter. Though she had asked for nothing, he was still awash with guilt and regret.

It was with such gloomy thoughts that he walked around the longhouse, and found a path that continued on back into the forest. That would be his way home. Then to his awe, he found a small slender tree, hidden until he was directly before it. At first, he thought that the snow had given it a canopy, but then he realized that the wispy ash like flurries around it were not snowflakes, but petals. It was blooming in _winter_.

Here was a gift for his daughter, for she dearly loved flowers, and all things that grew. Without thinking, he reached out and plucked a single blossom from a branch within eye-level.

A scoff reached his ears, and he whirled around to find a cloaked figure leaning against the trees toward which he’d been going.

“Was food and dwelling not enough? You are a hard man, indeed, to take what wasn’t offered.”

The shadows of the trees seemed to lengthen toward him, like clawed hands, but he could not move for fear. He clutched the flower on his palm. “Forgive me, sir, I don’t take it for greed. It is for my daughter.”

“Is that so?”

Where had the sun gone? Suddenly it was dark, as if the light had bled out of the day. “I tell the truth, I promise!” the old earl said. “My daughter is a kind young woman, who loves her unworthy father selflessly. I only wanted a gift to recompense the worry I must’ve caused her when I didn’t return last night.”

“And me, old man?” The earl still can’t make out his face, and in his fear, the old man thought his hunched figure twisted; but the voice was young, though awful in its tone. “What recompense will you give me for your offense? That tree is more special to me than all the treasures in my home, for that is where my mother was buried, and it is her bones that keep it alive throughout the cold winter. Shall I take _your_ bones to sustain it further?”

“Don’t!” the old earl cried. He had angered a monster, or a god. He didn’t know what to do. “I’ll give you anything.”

A laugh. “Anything?” At the old earl’s enthusiastic nodding, he hummed, and the shadows seemed to still. “So you do have some understanding of fairness. Fine then. I shall have your daughter as recompense.”

Horror filled the old earl’s being. “Anything but her. She is everything to me.”

“And that flower is borne of my mother, who was also everything to me. It is a fair exchange.”

“No.” The old earl shook his head, unable to contemplate losing his daughter, the only one who stayed with him when he was banished by the new king. All his sons were lost to other lands, and his other daughters stopped speaking to him when they married the first suitor to offer them a way out of disgrace. “ _No_ …”

“You refuse?” the voice said, harsh and hard again. “Then there is nothing more to talk about.”

The old earl recognized the tell-tale snap of a bow being nocked from years in the battlefield, and in overwhelmed alarm, he relented. “No! No, wait–” When the arrow did not loose, he stumbled onward to placate the shadow. “Give me three days. Please. Let me at least say goodbye.”

“Three days, and no more.” The figure at the tree shifted. “Do not think to fool me, old man. It is you or the girl. If neither are here on time, I shall hunt you both down.”

The old earl ran back to get his horse, and found her fed and brushed down. On his saddle was were two bags he did not own, and when he glanced inside, his heart nearly stopped at the wealth inside: gold coins and jewels beyond count. He thought of the house roof that wouldn’t hold for another winter, and of the debts piling up with their neighbors. He could not bring himself to throw it away.

Quickly, he mounted, and came out back to the path. The figure was still there, though the shadows were less heavy, as if to signify his host’s better mood. He could glimpse parts of a face now. A strong jaw. Striking eyes. Blue eyes, like the aftermath of lightning.

The old earl urged his horse onward, thundering down the path home as if all the host of Jotunheim were behind him.

The old earl arrived home just before the sun set once more. His second wife rushed out, excited at first for good news, but then she saw his expression and her face crumbled in realization that their fortunes had not improved. With a wail, she ran back into the house, nearly sending you to the floor when you collided at the door.

“Father?” you ventured, holding out a hand to help him dismount. “Is everything well? I could not sleep for fear for you.”

“Forgive me, my dear,” he said with a sad smile. “I’m afraid I was delayed in leaving.” And he told her of what happened to the unfortunate ship.

“Oh, it doesn’t matter,” you dismissed lightly, though inside a sliver of fear resurfaced. Winter was deepening, your credit in town was running low, and in the weeks of your father’s absence, you’ve found out that your stepmother was pregnant. How could the child in her womb survive in the cold seeping through your thin walls, your worn sheets? You would have to think of something, for you could not bear the heartbreak in your father’s face if you told him now. “Next time, we’ll choose a better ship. In the meantime, you must be hungry. There is still some soup from this morning.”

You took your father’s hands, and regretted the emotion that twisted his face as he grasped them, for you knew how rough with work they’d gotten.

A dark light came upon his eyes. “I did not come back empty-handed. Come inside, I shall show you.”

Your stepmother was roused from her grief when your father took two saddlebags and emptied them upon the table. Treasure spilled unto the worn surface. Everything gleamed – gold pieces and intricately cut jewelry in every color. “Why had you not spoken sooner!” she exclaimed, a light dawning on her face.

You looked at your father in confusion, for he had spun the tale of your ship’s misfortune so completely. Even now, there was no happiness there, no relief – just an impenetrable veneer you could not pierce.

Your stepmother grabbed a handful of gold and let them fall through her fingers as she laughed with tears in her eyes.

Your father laid a hand on your elbow and reached into his coat, pulling out a single white bloom. Enchanted, you took it gingerly, for you had never seen one like it before. Its petals were soft as ashy, and while it survived the bag and the gold and the jewelry, it was crumbling in your palm bit by bit, cold and insubstantial as snow.

“Where did it come from?” you asked wonderingly.

“An old partner repaid me as I was going home,” he said, not meeting your eyes. “That is why I was delayed.”

But the words did not ring true, and you could not find it in yourself to match your stepmother’s exuberance at your sudden fortune, and as she reached for your father to embrace him, she broke the news that she was with child.

How could you describe the fear that filled your father’s face, the pallor of death?

At dinner, you watched your father try to hide his hidden turmoil. Noticing your keen attention, he asked if there was anything you wanted. There was a pair of sapphire earrings that he thought would fit your skin tone well. You thanked him sincerely, already planning to hide the jewels away for a rainy day. Of everything he had brought back, only the flower had caught your interest.

You turned the matter over and over in your mind, picking apart his story for anything that did not make sense. For example, he would not say which of his old friends gave him his share of a past venture, and you knew all of them had turned their backs when he lost his favor with the king.

On the second day of his return, an inkling of an idea came to you, gaining force as your father paid off your creditors, pulling them aside afterwards for a private word.

“How long will you be gone?” you finally asked him, after he’d spoken to the butcher when he thought you were busy with the baker. “And why do you keep your departure secret from me?”

“What secret?” he attempted ignorance.

You fixed him with a look that would accept no pretense. It was the look he always said your mother – your real mother – used on him when she would have no further argument. “You have been making arrangements to leave again. You cannot hide this from me.”

His resolution crumbled. “I don’t know, my dear,” he finally said, taking your elbow to steer you through the crowd. “You will have to take care of your stepmother for some time, and it might be a good idea to stop confusing the townspeople with your mathematical ideas, for they are a simple folk. Bodil has been telling me–”

“I do it only to help them,” you returned, startled by the sudden concern. “And Solveig has started to give interest to my designs of a watermill for spring–”

“Solveig Asmundson?” your father interrupted. “I heard he had returned from a raid to help his father with the harvest. He has shown interest in you?”

You looked at him askance, seeing the wheels on his head turn clearer than he himself did. “In my _designs_ , father.” Before he could protest, you shook you head. “You’re trying to change the subject. Why are you leaving, where are you going, and why are you not telling me?”

“Solveig Asmundson has no wife,” your father muttered.

“Do not get your hopes up father. I do not wish him for a husband.”

You had reached the edge of town, and suddenly hunched as if from a great burden, he sat upon a rock and bade you to sit and rest with him. You put down your basket and folded yourself neatly beside him, looking up with concern at the unhealthy sheen of sweat upon his brow, and the mild shaking on his fingers on his trousers. Was he coming into illness?

“I will not be always here for you,” your father began. “You must start thinking of a family of your own.”

“ _You_ are my family,” you said. Maybe your stepmother, too, and when she gave birth, you will love the little child as one of your own.

“You’re beautiful, any man would have you if you let him close enough to ask,” your father pleaded.

“I do not want to be wanted simply because I’m beautiful.” You’ve had this argument before, why was he bringing it up again? “I am more than a face, am I not?”

“You are,” your father acceded. “And with time, your husband will know all your qualities. You cannot demand it before that. You must marry while you are beautiful, for you are no longer rich.”

“Father,” you said tiredly.

“What is wrong with all the men you’ve met?” he asked in frustration.

“Nothing,” you replied. “ _Everything_. They don’t really listen when I speak. They don’t want to know new things. They just want to live everyday as they have always lived it. I can’t–”

“You said Solveig liked your designs,” your father interjected.

“Why the sudden urgency?” you demanded.

His brows furrowed, and there it was again – that haunted, hunted look in his eyes. He spoke no more of the subject, and commented only that your stepmother is waiting for you.

He tried to make it up to you as you walked home, recounting tales he’d collected from the recently arrived sailors in town, for he knew you loved to hear of the lands beyond the sea and the people that lived there.

You were not fooled. At dinner, the tremor in his hand had spread to his whole body, and when he stood, you had to catch him before he collapsed. The heat from his body was akin to a furnace. Worriedly, you brought him to his room and laid him on the bed before rushing out to get a wet towel.

When there was nothing else you could do but let him sleep, you left him tucked beneath the furs, with a plea to your stepmother to wake you if he worsens in the night.

In the main hall, your pallet was laid before the fire, for your new home had no space for another room. You pulled out the white flower from a box that had once held jewelry, and turned it in your hand, begging it to spill its secrets. When it would give no answer, you settled to committing it to memory, for you estimated that it would last for one more day at the most.

You were roused from sleep the next day by a shadow passing overhead. You shot to your feet.

“Where are you going?” Your father was putting on his furs with difficulty, his hands shaking with the clasp. When he would not answer, you rushed to the front door and braced yourself against it. “Father, you are ill.”

“Let me go, daughter.” He tried to push past you, but in his weakened form, he barely budged you.

But the chill was on your back and on your ankles where the wind seeped through the door. It would be a cold day. “You cannot leave in this weather.”

“It is the third day,” your father said, grasping your arms urgently. “If I do not return in time, he will come. I have dreamt it. He will come.”

You looked at him with a sinking feeling. Was this a fever dream? “Father, who is this you speak of?”

“The boy!” your father whispered. “The beast!” His eyes were wild, his hands still shook.

“What does he want?” you asked, trying to understand.

“ _You_ ,” your father moaned. He teetered precariously and you reached forward to steady him. “For a flower, he would take you.” He shook his head, tears springing from his eyes. “I will not let him! I will offer myself up for my mistake, as I should’ve done the first time.”

You guided him gently to a bench and he described the rich house, the delicious array of food, the absence of people. He had thought it a miracle. Your heart beat in your ears as you took in everything he said. Bitter guilt clenched your chest when he recounted how he plucked a single flower from a tree that bloomed in winter, as a gift for you. That was how he’d met his host, a monster hiding in the shadows, waiting to ensnare him.

There was no old friend, as you’d expected. But this was something worse than a new loan from a wily moneylender.

“I must go,” your father lamented. “You must take care of the child to come. Promise me, daughter!”

 _The child_ …like a vision, you saw what needed to be done. It filled you with dread, but also with grim purpose. Your father cannot go. A child needed a father. You were only a girl – an unmarried girl, without dowry. You could not keep this family afloat.

You must take his place.

“Do you remember the way to his place?” you asked, mind working.

“A half day’s ride north, following the unmoving star,” your father answered, eyes fluttering close in painful memory. “Turn left at the toothed ridge until you find a crossroads. Take the right.”

You memorized the directions, then patted your father’s back consolingly. How fast your heart beat. Your blood was fire in your veins. “Why don’t you close your eyes a bit while I ready the horse, hm?”

Your father lurched forward. “No! I have to be there by the end of today, or he will – he will –”

“It’s still early,” you reasoned, coaxing him back. “Rest a while. Save up your strength to ride hard. I’ll wake you when I’ve prepared everything, alright?” 

He gripped your hand on his shoulder. “My daughter, my precious daughter. Thank you for understanding.”

As he slumped into sleep, your stepmother appeared at the door to their room, still half-unconscious, but aware enough to know something was amiss. “What is happening?”

You shook your head. “Take care of him,” you bade. “There are things I must do.”

You should be angry, and yet you couldn’t. What’s done is done.

You could not let your father go back.

You had to get away quickly. Gods willing, you would have set everything to rights and be on the way before he woke again. You put more wood in the fire and pulled the furs tighter around your father. You took half a loaf of old bread, changed into your hardiest dress and work boots, then slipped out into the rising sun to rouse the horse and saddle him. You would not allow yourself to second-guess, to find reasons to delay. You repeated your father’s directions over and over while you worked. When you urged the horse out of town, only the old man Lief saw you leave.

You rode through the cold, fixed upon your destination with determination. You tried not to think of what you would find, but still it crept in the edges of your thoughts. You could hardly trust a man who would threaten your father into sickness, even if he gave away food and shelter and treasure. Despite a steady gallop, the wind picked up by mid-morning, hooking freezing fingers under your clothes and forcing the horse to slow. Overhead, the sun remained hidden in a cover of clouds.

You had just taken the right path at the crossroads when your horse stumbled in the undergrowth, throwing you hard against the ground. It took a few moments for your vision to stop spinning, and to take stock of all your limbs. You were relatively unscathed, save for scratches and minor cuts, but a glance at your horse told you he had sprained a foot.

You did your best for it, allowing a quarter-hour before you forced yourself to move on. Delaying would only make things worse. Though you could not continue riding, you could continue on foot.

It was a brave effort, but with a lame horse to lead, and your dress catching at the brush, you were even slower than before. With the sinking heart, you continued on in the gathering night, breath misting in the lonely cold.

Hours must’ve passed, but you couldn’t turn back, for you were certain you were closer to your destination now than home. Even when the light began to fade, you plowed forward, for in doing so, you had a chance. If you stopped, you would freeze to death before the sun rose again.

You were mortally afraid your father had been mad at all. It was true the path he had described was there, but perhaps he had only imagined the house and the boy in his nightmares.

But the gold. The jewelry. Where else could it come from, but a monster from the stories?

At last, when you thought you fingers would fall off and you no longer knew if you were holding up the horse, or the other way around, your nose caught the faint whiff of smoke. You looked up, and there in the dark was a flicker of firelight.

You squashed down the desire to run headlong toward it, for it could be other men, camped down for the night. Caution urged you not to jump from one fatal path to another. You pulled out your knife from your boot. Your fingers would hardly close around the hilt, but you held it steady, for your life could depend on it.

Your fears were allayed when you abruptly stepped into a clearing, a great longhouse sitting upon the center. Fire flickered at a window. It could only be the place your father spoke of.

As you crossed into the open, you spotted a small white tree from the corner of your eye, and jumped, for you thought you had seen a person. In the faint light of the risen moon, the tree looked otherworldly, like the ghost of a woman who lived only in winter. Its branches hung low and full.

This was where your flower had come from. This was where your father was doomed. The thought kept you from coming close.

You did not know it, but like your father, you also came to the stables first, and left your horse in the same stall with water and hay to recover from the day’s trials. Before leaving, you brushed down your dress and rebraided your hair in an attempt to look more presentable. At the front door of the main house, you found the front door unlocked.

You stepped gingerly inside, and saw that it was just as your father described it. The great fire roared in the hearth, illuminating an enormous hall whose walls were painted and carved and filled with more treasure than you’d seen, buried in the silence of abandoned places. Your heartbeat echoed against your ears. Who would live in such opulence away from everyone else? All the wealthy people you’d once known made a point never to spend on anything they cannot flaunt in front of someone else.

This house was empty – empty save for torchlight that detached from the shadows of the room.

It moved close to the wall and down a dark hall, illuminating a path. You followed, thinking it was a servant, though you kept a hand on your knife, now hidden in your sleeve for easier reach. You reached an open door, and you were surprised to find a spacious room furnished richly. A dress was laid on top of the thick pile of furs, red as blood and glittering with ornate threadwork. The servant with the light had disappeared, though a shadow passed before your eyes as you turned on your feet searching, directing your attention to a steaming bath on an adjacent room.

Your cold exhaustion weighted heavier. Your aching body yearned to soak into the warm bath with fierce wanting and it took all your willpower not to strip then and there. You didn’t want to blind yourself to the generosity that must’ve put your father’s guard down as well.

You didn’t want to think that your father had not told you the specifics of the bargain he’d struck.

 _Do I have a choice?_ You were here now. You could not go back.

You went through the motions as quickly as you could, though part of you wanted to linger and savor the warmth and scent of the bathing oils by the tub. The dress fit perfectly, sliding over your skin as only expensive cloth can. You ignored the headdress and the hairpins that went with the dress, and plaited your hair loosely, as one would in the privacy of one’s home. You were not here to be pretty.

You put the knife in your sleeve and tried to feel that was enough.

Just as you were debating setting out in search of your host on your own, the flicker of a light appeared at the door once more. You followed the quiet figure, trying to catch a glimpse of a face to recognize it by, but the one who held the light was no more than shadow in the long corridor, evading approach.

You found yourself at the main hall once more. Just as before, your guide disappeared without a trace.

The smell of food brought you to the table before the fire, and found two table settings prepared. The rich flavor of herbed stew made your stomach curl in memory. When was the last time you’d seen whole fowl was served? The stew rich with herbs. It must’ve been at one of the king’s banquets for a foreign dignitary, a year or a lifetime ago.

Movement caught your eye, and you thought the servant had returned.

The figure at the door was unexpected. Without meaning to, the image that you’d conjured of your host in your head was more monster than man. But this was no beast. He was young, and handsome, broad at the shoulders and of tall stature even from a distance, his clothing rich as a nobleman’s.

You saw his legs last, twisted beneath him, unable to support his body without a crutch.

He noticed you notice it with unerring awareness and his entire countenance changed. You had judged too quickly, for there was that look in your host’s eyes: dark and desolate and cold as ice. Not even the golden fire could thaw the blue in them.

Here was the shadow that plagued your father.

You straightened and raised your chin against the fear, refusing to be cowed.

He noticed that too, and some hidden thought passed through his face as he broke the stillness, making his way toward you. His eyes never left you, like a hunter waiting for its prey to run. You held your ground by sheer will. 

“Sit,” he said, upon reaching the table.

Yes, he was young. His voice was so.

You follow the command, and he rests his crutches beside him before picking up the tankard to fill both your goblets.

“What’s your name?”

You tell him.

“ _Beauty_?” he translated, pausing a moment to arch an eyebrow. “And how old are you?”

He picked up his knife and fork to carve the fowl. You endeavored to hold your silence, but when he sets a large serving upon your plate, you could not help but gasp sharply.

He glanced at you. “Eat. I can’t tell if you’re underage or just underfed.”

You pursed your lips, rising at the jab at your circumstances. “These are hard times.”

“So it would seem. Your father was famished when he arrived, and his clothes had seen better days. What misfortune could cause a man once clearly noble to be riding in the middle of winter, alone and unprepared?”

You did not want to hear of how your father has suffered. You’ve seen it well enough. You didn’t want to be reminded of how you’d left him behind. “I’m not inclined to share my misfortunes with someone who hasn’t even told me their name.”

A curious look came into his face, and the smile hovering at the edge of his lips turns less derisive. “I wonder which one you are: the youngest, the oldest? Did you and your sisters cast lots or did they vote to cast you out?”

“None,” you said, hiding your trepidation. There had been other girls? “I came of my own accord.”

He laughed as he pointed his knife at you. “And what lies did your father tell you? A house made of gold? A handsome prince?”

“He told me the truth, such as it is.”

He suddenly leaned forward, startling you, and you had your own knife out and on his neck before you knew what you were doing. He did not even flinch, though the blade pressed against his naked throat.

“You would not have come here knowing the truth, for I had scared your father beyond relief.”

You gritted your teeth, remembering how your father wept. “And yet here I am, prepared for far worse.”

“Far worse?” he mocked. “Am I not monstrous enough?”

“Disability does not make a monster,” you answered stonily. “Though if you explain why you take girls from their fathers, I might see where the idea comes from.”

If he pressed any closer, you would have to cut him for real, for his face was an inch from you, and you felt you could drown from the color of his eyes. “There is fear in you. Do not lie.” 

You inhaled deeply to steady your hand on the knife. “I fear what you want, not what you are.”

For a long time, he looked into your own eyes and said nothing, until you felt the room fall away. Then, in a quiet voice, softer–

“Beauty, why did you come? Willingly, too, as you said.”

The answer would do well on your gravestone. “I came to save my father.”

He gave a small shake of his head. “No one is that noble.”

“It isn’t nobility,” you disagreed gently. “It’s love.”

You lifted your eyes and was startled at the look on his face, open and unsure as he studied you. “Love,” he echoed, as if the word was unfamiliar to him. 

Perhaps it was, if he were the kind of person to scare a man to death for taking a flower.

He leaned back, and you dropped your knife. His attention was on the fire, thoughts far away and impenetrable. “The ones that cried on sight, I sent home the next day,” he said. “You were not crying, but if you had been dull-witted, it would’ve been the same, and you’d be back in your father’s arms before the neighbors raised questions.”

You held your breath. “So you’ll let me go.”

He shook his head. “You’re different. You, I will keep.”

“For how long?”

He shrugged. “Forever, I suppose.”

He had glanced at you, and your expression must’ve been plain on your face. His mouth curled into a bitter smile and his gaze became dark as he gave you back your space.

“Don’t worry, Beauty. It will not be as long as you think it might.”

You pressed, “What do you want of me then?”

He had picked up his fork to resume eating, as if the matter were trifling. “Nothing. I only ever wanted company.”

You stared at the food, but instead of appealing, it now made your stomach roil as a boat in a storm. “What does company entail, specifically?”

“Conversation. A dinner partner.”

“That is all?”

“Are you ready to offer anything more?”

You let the hooded comment pass. You sank into your thoughts, looking for insincerity in his words, clues in his expressions. But your thoughts had tangled hopelessly; nothing made sense.

After a while, he put down his fork again with a heavy sigh. “If you will not eat, then this is pointless.”

He stood, grabbing his crutch. Instinctively, you stood to help, then wondered if it would be welcome, so you ended up on your feet as if on ceremony.

“Your room is safe, you need not worry,” he said. “Every night we’ll have dinner. Beyond that, do what you want, you are not a servant. You may go where you wish, as long as you do not stray where you can no longer see the house’s fire or its smoke. And never go to the west hall.”

“Why?”

“Because I say so,” he said rashly, finally maneuvering out of the bench.

You opened your mouth as he turned, and he paused, head cocked to listen.

“You haven’t told me your name.”

He turned his face away, the words low enough to be swallowed by the crackling of the fire. “It’s Ivar. Ivar the Boneless.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you think? Let me know in the comments!  
> Your feedback keeps me writing and improving.


	2. just a little change

You kept awake the entire night, sitting on top of the furs with knees folded under your chin and your knife held firmly in your hand. You had changed back into your old worn dress instead of the soft nightgown laid out on the bed when you returned, because you wanted to be ready to fight and run if the need arose.

But despite the howling of wolves in the distance and the sound of the wind passing through the eaves of the forest, nothing disturbed the silence. No clipped fall of boot and crutch came to your door. At last, as the faintest light fell upon your bed, you finally fell asleep.

It was hard to believe you would ever sleep so soundly in a foreign house, but you did. The sun had passed overhead when you opened your eyes. By your feet, another dress was laid, deep green and threaded with silver. You spent much too long deciding if you should wear it, until at last you supposed you could borrow it while you washed the ones you had soiled on the forest.

There was also a tray of food by the chest at the end of your bed: newly baked bread, still warm, and topped with an assortment of nuts, and honeyed mead. Again, you wondered how Ivar could have such luxuries so far away from town. Where did they get their provisions? How did they keep them so fresh?

You continued to ponder the matter as you set off, intent on discovering more of your new abode. The food and the dresses were proof that there were other people, and yet you could not find a single servant, save for shadows darting here and there in your periphery. Were they warned to avoid you? Was Ivar afraid you would pester them with questions?

Alone, you went where your feet took you. There were more rooms than you had expected from your evening glimpse of the longhouse, too many for it to possibly hold, but there they were. Many of them were dark and unused, crowded with dusty gold chests and jeweled candelabras and rolled patterned rugs that could only have come from faraway lands. Weapons lay where anyone could pick them up. You had thought they would be blunt, for surely Ivar didn’t think himself safe from violence, but they cut your thumb when you tested them.

One room was different from the others, and you found it on the same hallway as your room. It was different because it was not dusty, the air fresh and faintly reminiscent of pines. A mirror larger than any you had seen anyone afford before was propped on a vanity, and dresses filled boxes around the room. The one you’d been given last night was on the bed, and beside it was a blue one you’d never seen before, sown in with pearls like tiny moons. You left without touching anything, then returned to the main hall, and crossed to the other side.

You found the kitchen by the smell of cooking, but again, you found no people, though the pot was boiling with soup, and the oven was steaming, and the tables were still peppered with flour.

“This is ridiculous,” you murmured. Surely Ivar could not have instructed the servants to run away at your every approach. Just in this moment, what if something caught fire from being left unattended?

On a whim, you opened the oven and took out a loaf of bread, different from breakfast, and bounced it on your palms until it was cool enough not to burn them. Still, not one peep or glimpse of anyone.

Afraid something might go overcooked by your lingering, you went out in resignation, tearing the bread in a miffed manner. As you passed a window, a small bird swooped in, trying to steal the piece you were about to put in your mouth. It missed, and dove back out. You follow, leaning out the window with your hand outstretched in offering. Your laugh was cut off by the sight of the white blooming tree, still beautiful in the pale light. Against the floating snowflakes, it looked like a thing of magic, a tree out of the myths of the gods. You couldn’t understand why your father would touch it, even if he thought you might desire it.

The bird from before reappeared, alighting on the sill beside your hand. You tore your eyes away from the white tree, and offered the chunk of bread again. Its tiny beak closed upon your gift then fluttered away and did not return.

Finally, you had worn a hole through the house and seen everything, save for the west hall whose passage beckoned to you like a secret. Ivar’s warning echoed again in your head, but you were alone in a strange house, unnerved by the sound of your feet, and only your feet, disturbing the stillness. Your exploration had yielded no answers, only more questions.

The need to understand steeled your first step over the threshold, your ears pricked for other footsteps, but all was quiet as before. You slipped silently into the hall, praying for the first time that you encountered no one.

All the rooms you tried were locked, until you found one that wasn’t. It was dark, save for a sliver of light in the middle, illuminating a single bloom floating in a bowl of water. It was like the ones in the tree, like the one your father had carried home, except it had roots in the water. It was dying, crumbling apart. When you reached out with a trembling hand, your finger came away with ash.

“You _are_ your father’s daughter.”

You stumbled back as if burned. Ivar was hunched on an adjacent doorway, eyes blazing.

Guilt wrings its hands around your throat as apology rushed out. “I’m sorry–”

“Get out.”

Not even the chill you’d endured on the journey here could rival the ice in his voice.

“But it’s dying. I could–”

“You cannot even keep your word!” he snapped. “ _Don’t touch it_!”

Your hand had been reaching for it again, and in his alarm, he moved too fast and lost his footing. He crashed into the floor, but when you knelt to help him, he pulled out a gleaming knife and stuck it close to your face, his face livid.

“GET OUT!” he barked.

You fled, shaken to your bones. All you can think of is escaping from that twisted figure on the floor as fast as you could, from the sound of wood crashing and a man shouting in rage. You rushed from the shadows twisting near the walls, out into the falling snow, across the white-washed clearing, and into the forest, tearing your borrowed dress on bramble and branch.

The forest passed in a whirl, mute observers to your aimless flight. Your mind had shut off, trapped in a house where Ivar’s anger shook the walls. Eventually, your legs gave way without warning, crumpling in exhaustion. Your lungs heaved, your stomach churned so that you had to lean over and heave your last meal over a bush. Afterwards, you lay on your back on the snow, trying to find your way back to yourself.

It might’ve been hours. It might’ve been minutes. The sky was an endless expanse of gray above you, the leaves rustled without care. Your mind slowly settled, jagged shards falling back into place.

You tried to get your bearings in the gathering dark. You had ran out late into the day, and had lost your bearing in the unfamiliar wilderness. Somewhere, a wolf howled and was answered, until it echoed all around you, unlocking your limbs forcibly into action.

You hurried as well as you could with your aching legs, but you were lost, despairing that this was the second time in as many days that you were in danger of dying in the same forest. You sat down again and tried to think, but the cold was worsening and you were tired and hungry and you didn’t even have a coat.

A wolf began to howl, and the pack took up its call. You shot to your feet and sought the direction of the smoke again. Frost bit at the skin where the undergrowth tore at your dress, like fingers eager to trap you in their grasp. The wolves were fast on your trail. You had never been shadowed by creatures that wanted to eat you before, but this was instinct as old as life itself. 

You had lost the last of the sun when you stumbled into a wide path. In the dark, you saw red eyes gleam from between the trees. Their growl rattled inside your chest.

You pulled out the knife on your boot and braced for death as a wolf leapt.

An arrow whizzed past your cheek, catching the wolf midair. It fell into a heap one feet from your boot, whimpering its last breath. A shaft pierced its heart.

You whirled around as the wolves took up a howling chorus, and found a chariot thundering down the path, a man astride. Another arrow flew, taking down one of the wolves who had ventured past the tree line when you weren’t looking.

“Down!” the figure growled.

You ducked. You knew that fierce voice, that irritated tone.

Another wolf fell.

The chariot pulled close, and you were struck by the sight of Ivar barking orders at you. You were shaken awake when he was cut off by two wolves climbing the open end of the chariot. He dropped his bow and pulled out an axe, hacking at dark bristling flesh.

You yourself went down with a hard thump, a wolf snarling at the end of your dress. You braced yourself and kicked hard at its snout, then gasped as a claw swiped at your face. Fire erupted where it tore across your cheek, and you lashed out blindly. Whether the answering whimper was caused by a fatal wound or not, you did not know, for suddenly, the pack was retreating.

When they had faded back into the woods, you touched your face gingerly. Your hand came away bloody. The gruesome sight of it triggered alarm.

 _Ivar_.

Ivar had come for you.

You stumbled toward the chariot and gave a cry at the slumped figure at its end, fearing the worst. But the sound seemed to waken Ivar, and with a hiss, he shifted. You clambered forward, heedless of the dead wolves underfoot, hooking an arm under his shoulder to support him. Your other hand moved across his chest, checking for blood flowing freely, but it was useless: everything was slick against the leather.

He shifted away with a scowl. “Go. Take one of the horses.” He was in visible pain, but trying valiantly to hide it.

You knew what he meant, and all of you wanted to obey.

But you couldn’t leave this man, wounded and bleeding in the snow for saving you when he did not have to. You couldn’t bear it.

Your lack of movement incited him further. “The wolves _will_ come back.” His voice was strange. Harsh, impatient – but timorous underneath. The line of his mouth trembling, a muscle on his jaw working.

Yes, the wolves come back – and they would kill him.

You looked away, hiding whatever defenselessness he might find in your own face behind the loosened locks of your braid. “Tell me how to get back to the house.”

“Just the path from last night backwards!”

“No,” you told him. “To _your_ house.”

In the faint moonlight, his face turned toward you, and you saw the mask he’d been wearing since you’d met him swept away. The perpetual anger and simmering resentment gave way to uncertain hopefulness. It stopped your breath, how at that moment, you realized Ivar couldn’t be that much older than you – just that imperfect, just that fearful of being hurt.

He grasped the board and grunted with effort as you straightened together. When he was secure, you took the reins, ignoring their shaking, but Ivar put his hand over them anyway.

“If you don’t leave now,” he whispered, breath puffing out in cold bursts. “I will not let you leave again.”

You gritted your teeth and set your heart to stone, and urged the horses to movement.

The horses brought you as close to the door as possible, but there was still the matter of getting Ivar down. The snow was boot-high, and more than once, the two of you nearly pitched in headfirst. You were sweating in the cold when you stumbled into the room. Where the servants were and why they did not help upon your arrival, you could not fathom, for there were herbs and liniments and warm water and towels on the table by the fire.

Ivar was only half-awake when you deposited him to the furs closest to the hearth, but he reacted with surprising speed when you began to unhook the leather armor over his tunic.

“What are you doing?”

His grip was strong for someone pale under the streaks of dried blood. “You need to be tended to.” You put out a hand to stop him from sitting up. His heart beat fast against your palm in agitation. “I’ve done this for my brothers before.”

His eyes roamed over you with hooded suspicion, but he stopped trying to sit. “I’m fine.”

“My brothers would lie about their wounds too.”

“It’s just the wolves’–”

He was being obstinate for no reason, as was his nature. Tired and bruised, you were in no mood to humor it. “I do not need you awake to do this, Ivar,” you said harshly. “Shall I put you to sleep first? There is an herb here for that.”

You studied him, and when you were satisfied he would make no further aggravating movements, you pulled your hair where it had stuck on your skin, and rebraided it away from your face.

“I did not know you had brothers,” Ivar muttered.

Anger was a bad thing to harbor when healing. It hardened the hand, poisoned the will. You tried to banish the spark of irritation before it caught further. “I had four. They were a difficult bunch, always going off on raids, trying to outdo each other.”

You raised your hands to give notice and waited until he had nodded before you resumed working off the leather armor, ignoring the stutter of his breath in your ear when you wrapped your arms around him so you could raise him to take it completely off. His tunic was dark in the first place, but the half-dried blood made it look like an oil spill against his skin. Your fingers kept slipping on the laces on his arm braces, and could stop your gasp when you saw the damage he’d been hiding beneath. A wolf had bitten through. The torn flesh was red and angry and dangerous.

Terror swept aside your brittle calm, and you snapped. “You said you were fine!”

He bristled at the rise of your voice. “I _am_ fine,” he countered obstinately. “It’s still attached, isn’t it!”

You took a moment to reign in your temper once more, before hurriedly grabbing another towel and wiping at the mess. He hissed through his teeth and when you had to come close to the wound, he recoiled. You dug your fingers on his upper arm. 

He hissed again, jerking his hand back. “Are you always this gentle?”

“If I were any gentler, I wouldn’t be touching your skin at all,” you retorted, taking a goblet of mead from the table and holding his arm away from the furs. “Steady.”

His eyebrows arched incredulously before he had to bite his tongue from the sting of alcohol being poured over the wound. You worked quickly, old lessons echoing in your head in steady calming stream. This herb to curb the bleeding. That one to make the skin knit faster. You were trying not to think about flesh and needle and stitching, which was the part you least enjoyed. 

But finally you had to reach up the table once to take a candle, so you could run the needle through the fire to cleanse it. You steeled yourself, and offered a towel for Ivar to bite.

Ivar was half-delirious from pain, his breath coming in harsh bursts from between gritted teeth, but he managed to look affronted nonetheless. “ _No_.”

“Then hold still.”

You began to stitch. His arm was rigid in your hold, but he made no sound, save for a rattling breath drawn every now and then. When it was done, you grabbed a roll of cloth with relief that the worst is over. Ivar seemed to melt against the furs. You met his unsteady gaze as you tied the bandages. “We’re not finished.”

He shook his head, petulant as a child being kept from drifting off to sleep. “I’d tell you if I was hiding any other–”

You grasped at the hem of his tunic. “Off.”

He glowered indignantly. “Woman–”

“Four brothers,” you repeated with emphasis, unyielding.

The tunic came off, and you pause with a stare. You knew despite the condition of his legs that his upper body was not similarly afflicted. But to see the muscle rippling through skin – skin that was marked with tattoos curling like second armor around his shoulders toward his chest and down his arms – still caught you unaware.

Despite his condition, his youth, his imposed isolation, Ivar was a warrior. He couldn’t just fight, as he had shown earlier. He was bloodied; he had made his kills in battle. Those marks wouldn’t have been given otherwise.

How little you knew about this man you both tried to escape from and had returned willingly with.

Ivar had remained silent throughout your struggle, and when you looked at his face once more, he met your eyes with full awareness of your questions but offered no answer of his own accord.

You swallow all the questions on your throat as you reached for the towel, feeling unsettled as you drove your mind toward the cut near his collarbone, and another on his left side. You tried to ignore the warmth of flesh heated by the fire, and the beat of Ivar’s heart beneath your hand. It was very quiet now, the hush thick between you.

When it was finished, Ivar put a hand over the bandages you’d finished and said, “Thank you.” It caught at his throat, as if he were unused to the shape of the words.

You nodded, unsure how else to answer, and turned your attention to your own wounds instead. They were trivial enough: the cut on your cheek, and four long and thin scratches on your ankle where sharp claw had found flesh. They stung fiercely for so little a scrape, like reprimands.

It was midnight when you leaned back against the bench and closed your eyes, hands smelling of herbs and healing. Ivar’s eyes were closed, and the mournful howling of wolves was too far away to darken the light before the fire.

You leaned back exhaustedly, watching your warden, your patient, your savior. You knew you could still run, take a horse, be back home in the morning. But he had saved you, when he didn’t have to. He was going to let you go.

Ivar wasn’t truly a monster, though he saw himself as one. He made himself terrible for it. But tonight, you saw past the mask for a moment, saw the vulnerability, the loneliness and pain.

If you could just help him…

_Ivar!_

It was a man’s shout, and you jerked at the sound in the pitch black of a dream.

_Ivar, what have you done?_

Another voice interlaced over the fading echoes of the first, then another, and another, until a cacophony of accusations rang in your head. You shivered against a cold that did not come from winter’s chill.

_I’m sorry._

That was Ivar’s voice, whispered to himself, unheeded by those to whom it was addressed.

_I did not mean it._

The regret in it made your heart clench in pity, and you reach out for him instinctively. Your fingers felt across the furs and twined against his, callous-rough from weapons, and large against yours.

_I didn’t mean it._

_Don’t look at me like that._

You squeezed his hand, and the room went silent once more. Ivar makes a sound that was part whimper, part sob, palpable in the sudden absence of all other sound.

_Don’t look at me like I am the monster everyone thinks I am._

When you woke again, it was warm and soft and you couldn’t remember where you were. Fur was wrapped around you so completely that in the daylight, you could almost forget it was almost midwinter.

Memory returned slowly as you uncurled your body from the bench and the floor. Your recuperating charge was nowhere to be seen, all the furs you’d covered him with now draped around you. The bowls of bloody water and the used bottles had been cleaned up, though Ivar’s tunic had been half-crushed beneath you and escaped being put away. There was a bowl of still warm bread and mead on the table above your head.

You ate idly, musing over your dream. _Don’t look at me like I am the monster everyone thinks I am._ Did you look at him so? He had stolen you from your father after all. Tricked an old man who’d stumbled into his home in a storm. Her father couldn’t have known that the flower was forbidden, when all else had been given so freely. They could’ve ignored his threats. It would’ve been difficult for him to force you out of the village, unless he came with a band of men.

Why had you come at all in the first place?

Why had you run, then come back? Why couldn’t you have left him in the snow?

“How could I run, with all that blood in my hands?” you wondered sadly. “I would never be able to wash it off.”

You drifted aimlessly after the meal, going first to the stables to check on the horses, but found that only yours was in its stall. Had Ivar gone out again, in his state? You brush your hand over your horse’s sides and found that we was doing much better than he had in the past months.

Outside, you wandered the edges of the clearing, trying to familiarize yourself with the forest around and marveling at the lack of other people’s presence. More and more you were beginning to feel that it was just you and Ivar in this place, and that meant things were stranger than they appeared. Again, it was too easy to leave. Didn’t he fear you would?

As you stood before the white tree, you found you couldn’t take one step back toward the stables.

 _Don’t look at me like I am the monster everyone thinks I am._ He knew what people thought of him, and despaired. Could a monster feel despair? Could one lament a fate so lonely, so desolate?

You stared at the white tree, marveling how it could bloom in such cold. It was a miracle. It was beautiful as a magic spell. Your eyes widened as your mind caught hold of an elusive thought.

As on the first night, you were seated at the table when Ivar arrived. You rose to greet him, while he hovered by the door studying you for a long time. You said nothing, and let him sort his thoughts out without a word.

A rich dish of fish with herbs and smoked meat was served before you, and like before, he served you first, and served you more than you could eat. Instead of commenting on it, you tried to pursue your plan before you lost the will for it.

“I explored the house and the grounds again,” you began. He made no comment, but his head tilted slightly, so you knew he was listening. “It was so quiet. I encountered no one at all throughout the day.”

Ivar continued eating, and you swallowed the lump on your throat.

“There is no one else here,” you said aloud. “Is there?”

He looked at you straight on. “No.”

Food made without hands. A house kept without servants. “Then all of this…” You watched his expression closely, but it was blank as a sheet of snow. “How – how does it work?”

He shrugged, and picked up a knife to resume eating again. “Some things can’t be explained, Beauty.”

“Is it blood?” you plowed on. You have heard stories, legends and myths and witches’ tales. “Is that why you need the girls? To sustain the magic?” You were frightened of what you were venturing into, but you had to know.

“I told you I wanted you for conversation and company. That list was exhaustive.” He fixed you a look. “Eat. It’s as real as everything you’ve eaten before, and it _is_ getting cold.”

You picked up a spoon and sipped the broth. Flavor exploded on your tongue. _Real. It’s real._ You couldn’t imagine this, the taste, the smell. The warmth and satisfaction in your belly after months of watery soup and plain bread.

But magic! Ivar had admitted it so quickly. Was it all his doing? If it were, you would have to admit to an utter inability to deduce anything about him.

“How was your day?” he asked.

“Terrible,” you said honestly. “There is no one to talk to.”

Again, he was quiet, and there was nothing but the ping of cutlery and the crackle of the fire. You had resigned yourself to what little conversation there had been when you caught his eye. When you paused, he reached down to his belt and slid familiar sheath across the weathered wood of the table towards you.

You froze, looking wide-eyed at your knife, forgotten on the road after your altercation with the wolves, then at Ivar’s cold indifferent face. Tentatively, you took it, and ran your hands over the hilt worn first from your mother’s hand and now yours.

“You went back for it?” you confirmed.

He nodded. “It is a good blade, that one.”

“Thank you, Ivar.” Your chest felt full, partly with sincere gratefulness, the other with uncertainty. Did he know the implications of returning the knife? What giving you a weapon, even one that belonged to you in the first place, meant to you? The walls around your heart crumbled further down. “It’s the one thing I have left of my mother.”

At the mention of your mother, something inexplicable crossed his face. “That is the first time you’ve mentioned her. It was always about your father, before.”

You fingered the sheath, uncertain. You were possessive of your mother’s memory. Those were happier times, when your family was complete and it seemed like the gods favored you well. To speak of it always seemed to drain it some of its brilliance.

But you remembered how Ivar was possessive of the white tree too, because of his mother. It was that possessiveness that damned you and your father.

“She was a shieldmaiden,” you began slowly, letting your mind remember. “People would whisper how lucky my father was, how the gods had intervened when he defeated her in combat to secure her hand in marriage.”

His teeth flashed white in a grin. “They said the same of my mother.” You were startled by his openness, but didn’t want him to stop, so you leaned forward to show interest, hearing the pride in his voice. “Freyja herself must’ve whispered the answer to my father’s riddle, for no other woman could’ve been worthy of him.”

You smiled. You couldn’t help it, for in speaking of his mother, you again saw a softness in Ivar’s face that was so often hidden away. He had loved her, truly, and that made her a great woman by your own reckoning, for you didn’t think Ivar loved easily, or at all.

He caught your eye and seemed to catch himself. “How did she come by that knife? It was not made by our smiths.”

So he had noticed that. “She said it was from woman from Maghreb whose family had hosted them during one of our king’s rare trading expeditions. _Malika_. She thanked my mother for living as proof that women could do all the men could, that we could fight with a sword in hand without the gods cursing us with a barren womb. That those weren’t just legends made by bored women kept behind veils and carved walls.”

Ivar’s eyebrow arched, impressed despite himself. “I have never met a woman who had traveled so far.”

“She wasn’t like anyone else,” you said. “Not even our elders could rival her stories, when she chose to share the ones she’d gathered from abroad.”

But the best stories, she kept for you and your siblings. How many nights had you curled up before the fire, listening to her talk of dragons and princesses in towers? Your brothers loved it most, because it was almost always men that featured as heroes, rushing into battle and winning against insurmountable enemies. Your sisters didn’t mind the silent, pliant women as long as a prince rescued them in the end.

For you, though, your mother always found a tale about a woman who defied all the odds. When everyone else was sleeping, she would admit that those were her favorite too. How like her you were. She had given you the knife before sickness claimed her in the end, bidding you not to forget the child you had been, just as eager as her boys to set out into the wide world and claim a legend for yourself.

But you couldn’t tell Ivar that. It was a dream you could never admit aloud, a dream you feared you might never achieve.

You looked at Ivar, afraid he might see it in your face and be derisive anyway, but his own eyes were faraway, perhaps seeing his own mother’s face in the fire. Memory hung heavy between the two of you.

Words struggled out of your throat. “You should’ve waited to get it,” you said, expressing concern that he had gone out so soon after last night’s altercation. “How is your arm? Does it hurt still?”

You kept watch over his arm as he spoke. “It does not.”

 _Liar_. He was careful not to move it, which meant it still bothered him. “I will change the bandages for you, if you let me.”

He nodded in assent. When the meal was finished, he gave you directions to a room you must’ve missed before, for it kept the bandages and dried herbs you needed. When you returned to the table, the plates had been put away, with only two goblets and a tankard of mead left.

You gestured and he held out his arm, allowing you to push back his sleeve and unwound the bandage. When your silence stretched out, Ivar prompted tentatively. “Tell me one of your mother’s stories.”

Mild alarm flared up inside you. You could never remember when asked out of the blue. It was as if everything came rushing in at once that your mind blanks out. But Ivar looked sincere, and you knew him to be relentless when he desired something, so you breathed deeply and tried to think.

“Once,” you started slowly, “There was a king who found out his wife was unfaithful…”

You recount the tale heard from an Arab, one night many moons ago, how the king had his cheating wife executed, and deciding then that all women were faithless, made it so that he married a new virgin each night, and had her beheaded in the morning so that she would not have the opportunity to betray him. Finally, he met the vizier’s daughter, Scheherazade. She was as beautiful as she was clever, and she devised a plan to save her life. After dinner, before they were to retire, she tasked her sister to ask for a story. The king found himself drawn into the tale, until finally, Scheherazade stopped in the middle. The king asked her to continue, which she regretfully denied, for dawn was breaking.

And so he spared her for one more day, so that she could continue the story that night. When the first story was finished, she continued on to a second, and stopped in the middle when the new day came. It came to be that the king, anticipating the resolution of a story each night, heard a thousand stories in the course of a thousand and one nights, which was when Scheherazade ran out of stories.

You stopped to wet your parched throat, and Ivar leaned forward impatiently. “Well did he kill her?”

You grinned, pleased that you had held his attention. “What do you think?”

He narrowed his eyes. “He should.”

You scoffed. “You would think that.”

He tapped his good hand against the table expectantly. You met his gaze calculatingly, then said, “It’s quite late, Ivar. We should–”

He scowled, grasping your wrist as you made to stand. “ _Don’t_ ,” he burst out, “–you dare.”

You arched an eyebrow, silent.

“I am not like that king, Beauty. I will kill you if you do not finish.”

“Ah,” you said quietly, mutiny growing in your blood, for you had seen the look in his eyes, craving, demanding. You’ve been kind to him on account of what he’d done for you, but you did not appreciate being commanded so. “Then you’ll never hear what happened.”

His eyes widened in disbelief, and you pulled away with the bowl and the old bandages. You dipped into a curtsy – just a little spiteful perhaps, but you couldn’t help but push back a little against his will – and bade him goodnight.

He was quiet as you left the room, and you wondered if that counted as a victory.

Boredom would drive you to mischief, or so you thought as you woke the next morning to the empty house. Mischief, you lamented, or self-harm, likely in the form of wandering in the forest for something to amuse yourself with. If you went often enough, surely you would stop tripping over roots and start learning to tell one tree apart from another.

Right?

You had unearthed a cloak from your room when you went out, thinking sunset was hours yet and this time, you won’t stray far.

Ivar looked up from the table in the main hall, a meal set out before him. The two of you stopped and stared at each other, then in unison: “Where are you going?” he asked, while you burst out, “What are you doing here?”

He answered first. “You said you wanted company.”

Slowly, you approached, and saw another place set for you. “I…did not expect this.”

He glared. “Do I disappoint you?”

“No!” you said quickly, and huffed at quickly he took offense. You sat by the bench, cloak folded on your lap. “Really, Ivar, it’s just that I do not wish to keep you from anything important.”

He shrugged. “They were not urgent.” He gestured broadly at the meal. “I had to start without you, you took so long.”

You looked at the porridge and the bread and – is that _buttermilk_? “So that’s why there was no tray by my bed today.”

He narrowed his eyes. “What did you assume?”

That he was going to starve you into submission.

Deciding that would not be taken lightly, you employed his habit of ignoring the question by asking one of your own. “Be honest. Is this about last night’s story?”

He scoffed. “I know how it ends. Obviously, she was killed.”

“Obviously,” you smiled thinly, and took up a spoon and tasted the porridge. You resisted the urge to moan. _Perfect_ , as always. You were going to hunt down his cook if it was the last thing you did and steal him away.

Ivar had not resumed eating. When you looked up, he was holding a heavy bound book you had never seen before. You felt a sinking feeling in your gut at the look in his face: mischief, and victory.

“I was going to give it to you. Since you like stories, you might enjoy new ones,” he said.

You put down your spoon, eyes darting between the evil look on his face and the book in his good hand. He was baiting you with an alternative to traipsing in the forest at winter, the devil. “If you meant to give it, give it.”

“But isn’t it only fair to withhold it from you, as you do the same to me?”

You could dive for it – you were fast enough –

“Beauty…” he warned, catching the look on your face.

Your hand darted out, just as he leaned as far back as possible. You caught the edge of it with your fingers, his cry indignant below you – then something hard knocked against your ankles, pulling you off balance. With your own startled exclamation, you fell on top of him – crash, bang – and found yourself saved from the floor by a warm body.

A heartbeat pounded hard against your ear. Your hand was still against the book, stretched out to your right.

“I will take that as an attempt on my life,” Ivar rasped, voice rattling in his chest.

You rolled to the side and sat up with a face burning with embarrassment. Thankfully he had landed on some furs, so it couldn’t have been _that_ hard of a fall. You hoped. Your own heartbeat was loud and erratic as you searched his eyes for pain and confusion – gods forbid, any sign of a concussion – but they were blue, just blue and a bit miffed.

“I am,” you breathed. “terribly sorry.”

He rose on his elbows, and you wrapped an arm under his shoulders to help him.

“He didn’t kill her,” you said guiltily.

“What?”

You broke away and would not meet his eyes. “The king from the story,” you clarified. “He did not kill her.”

He sighed and lifted himself back up the bench, then held out his hand for you to get up from the floor. “Foolish.” He resettled himself while you brushed dust from your dress, then held out the book after you’d taken a long draught from the cup. You took it tentatively, and muttered thank you.

The book was leather-bound, and you gasped when you opened it to find the pages illuminated with colors. “It’s beautiful,” you whispered. “Where did–”

Ivar shifted, catching the dismay that crept into your voice. “What?”

“I don’t…I can’t read this script.”

It was not runic. You’ve seen works from the Greeks, and the Arabs, which you didn’t understand but at least recognized. This was neither.

Ivar held out his hand, and you handed the book back with a heavy heart.

“What is it?” you asked, watching him flip through the pages. “Can you understand it?”

“It’s a bible,” he answered. “One of my uncles had been a monk in East Anglia. He never stopped trying to convert us to Christianity. He taught us his language and left this with us, hoping we’d one day change our minds.”

“And did you? Change your mind?”

He snorted. “No, we were just interested in the stories. There was one here about a great flood, and another about the son of god…they have a good imagination, those Christians.”

Now he was just being cruel, baiting you with what you can’t have. You turned away, and took a long drought of drink. When you put the goblet down, he was watching you intently.

“What?” you asked forbiddingly, quite unhappy with him, and yourself, at present.

“I’ll teach you,” he said carefully. “If you wish.”

“Really?”

You wanted to flinch at the eagerness in your voice, but it was out before you could stop it.

His eye glinted as he smiled. “In exchange for more of your mother’s stories.”

It was all too good to be true. “You will teach me to read it,” you repeated, “in exchange for more stories?”

“It’s fair, is it not?”

It was more than fair, if he meant to keep his word. Part of you scrambled to look for the catch, for there must be one, but your resolve was weak. He’d baited you and you’d been caught, and it was too late.

“Alright,” you said.

His teeth flashed as he put the book under his good arm and took the crutches on the other. “Then if you’re finished with your food, we’ll start immediately.”

You scrambled after him. “Where are you going?”

“Out,” he answered, already halfway to the door. “We’ll start with the alphabet.”

**Author's Note:**

> What do you think? Let me know in the comments!  
> Your feedback keeps me writing and improving.


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